


When He Was Good

by nerigby96



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: Angst and Feels, M/M, Pining, Reminiscing, Separation Anxiety, Sharing a Bed, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25407004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: Jerry can't remember the last time Dean looked at him, let alone spoke. But tonight he can't sleep, and he thinks if he's quiet, if he's good, he can do a little something about that.
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	When He Was Good

He isn’t sure how long he stands there. Most of it’s spent thinking how much easier it was before. When he was young, he could slip easily beside his friend and snuggle down to sleep. When he was brave, he would nudge Dean’s arm and tuck himself against his side. When he was good, his friend would say nice things in the dark, and sometimes do them, too, if he’d been an especially good boy that day.

It’s different now. He isn’t young anymore; he’s bigger and stronger – physically, at least – doesn’t get so many jokes now about noodle arms, knobby knees, a ribcage like a xylophone. He isn’t brave; no more snap-decision leaps into Dean’s bed, using the mattress (and oftentimes his partner) as a trampoline, to finish sprawled in the sheets, sometimes held by strong arms playfully pinning. He’s not good; he’s whined and begged and pushed too many times, maybe even once was enough for Dean’s indulgent, saintly patience to wear thin, to snap completely, to see through whatever meagre protective façade Jerry had created for the cowering pathetic kid beneath.

So it’s different. Too many times he’s proved that point to Dean, and tonight they went their separate ways without so much as a curt nod. Jerry watched Dean’s back through the crowd until it disappeared and then grabbed the first girl he could find. Or rather, the first girl he found grabbed him: a dark, sweet little thing with bright eyes and a red mouth. In his bedroom (part of their shared suite; Dean’s door was closed and no light was visible under the door), it was clear she was ready and willing for anything he might ask, but all he asked was that she understand he wanted her to have a good time.

She did. Jerry isn’t sure when he realised that he's good at this, but he knows it. So she had a good time, and then fell asleep beside him, one perfectly-manicured hand resting on his arm.

And he tried so hard. He wanted so badly to be good, to go to sleep as quickly as possible – and if he couldn’t sleep, to stay in bed, at least, to wait for sunrise. He waited. He waited for at least two hours, tossing and turning, legs tangled in the sheets, the girl muttering and stirring but staying blissfully asleep. He knew what he wanted, had known it the moment he came back to the room and saw Dean’s darkened door, but for the first time in almost ten years he knew for sure he was not wanted. And knowing this he slid out of the bed and hurried across the cool suite on trembling legs, slipped into Dean’s room and let the door close silently behind him.

But now he can’t make his feet move. He’s staring at the shadowy suggestion of his partner in the dark, and he can’t move. Instead, he shuts his eyes and listens to the low breathing. He pictures Dean’s usual position: half-curled, one fist tucked against his mouth. He knows it so well he could draw it. Once – back when he was young and brave and good – he took a picture of Dean; the sound woke him up, and instead of being mad he grinned sleepily and swiped at him like a tired old bear, caught him and pulled him close beneath the sheets.

Jerry doesn’t know where he put the photograph; the thought makes his chest go tight, and he scrunches up his face until he doesn’t want to cry so much.

He listens to Dean’s breath. He listens to the clock softly ticking. He listens to cars passing outside, and the whisper of a breeze against the curtains. Not a comforting whisper, like a friend in the dark, but a stranger’s voice at the foot of your bed, when you’re half-awake and dreaming and your body’s given up and left you to your fate.

He shudders and quickly – but so quiet and gentle, too, so good – climbs into the bed.

It creaks and sighs a little; beside him Dean stirs; and then the room is quiet once again, everything just as it was, except now there’s an interloper in the bed, heart hammering so hard it’s liable to wake every guest in the hotel, let alone one slumbering Italian.

Dean stays slumbering, and Jerry stays as still as he possibly can, teeth clamped on his bottom lip, sweaty hands gripping the sheet, all his trembling concentrated on his big toe, which judders alarmingly. But he’s here – in Dean’s bed in Dean’s room with Dean sleeping beside him – and that’s better than not being here. Better than tossing and turning in bed with a stranger, no matter how pretty and willing they are. And right now, it’s better than being awake with Dean, all cold shoulders and frosty silence. Asleep, the broad back doesn’t seem so impenetrable. It’s back to how it used to be: just a canvas Jerry can paint on with his fingertip.

He doesn’t. He wants to, but he doesn’t. He stays still and feels his hands relax. His heart quits hammering and settles to a gentler thud. His toe twitches, but not so violently, and he risks a small full-body wriggle, just to be comfy, and stares up at the ceiling, which seems to shimmer and shift in this almost perfect darkness.

He won’t stay all night. He’ll wait until he feels calmer – until the soft snuffling snores have not-quite-tricked him into thinking things are the way the used to be – and then he’ll sneak back across the living room and into bed with the girl he brought here. He could stay all night, and he thinks about it, too. But he doesn’t want to stay, and not wanting that is evidence enough that things are not the way they used to be. They won’t ever be.

Tears burn tracks down his temples and pool in his ears. He doesn't make a sound. He just lets it happen, silent and resolved. His head throbs.

He knows what will happen if he stays, if he accidentally falls asleep. Dean will wake at daybreak. He’ll stir and stretch and yawn and sense the thing in his bed before he sees it. He’ll glance over his shoulder, consider nudging it awake to send it on its way, but won't. He’ll get up and dress and grab his clubs and go. He’ll do it all in perfect silence. And Jerry will wake up alone some hours later, and hurry back across to the girl in his bed, who will already be awake, and maybe thinking he left her alone there, and he’ll feel awful for it, but they’ll make up, and she’ll forgive him, if she ever really held any animosity toward the celebrity she never dreamed she’d meet, let alone bed.

So he won’t stay. He won’t fall asleep. He’ll be good and he’ll wait until his partner’s presence calms him a little more, and then he’ll slip away. He won’t say a word. Nor will Dean, if he figures out what happened in the night.

For now, though, he’ll stay. And it does help, a little, having Dean there, even if the foot of mattress between them is the farthest away he’s ever been.


End file.
